


Any Cunt Can Do It

by Anonymous



Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett, Hellblazer
Genre: 1980s, Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Self-Esteem Issues, Semi-Public Sex, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-28
Updated: 2020-09-28
Packaged: 2021-03-07 16:08:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 898
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26700439
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: A Constantine approaches a demon in a bar. It goes about as well as can be expected.
Relationships: John Constantine/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 24
Collections: Good Omens Kink Meme Anonymous





	Any Cunt Can Do It

**Author's Note:**

> Written six months ago for [this prompt](https://good-omens-kink.dreamwidth.org/3161.html?thread=2092121) on the meme, but only getting around to putting it up here now.

“Nah,” said Crowley. 

“C'mon, you don't even know what I'm going to–”

He was skinnier than good nutrition with a shitty haircut and shittier tattoos. Crowley, who was wearing the sort of suit which let him snort cocaine off supermodels after a hard day doing something financial (he'd never been bothered to look up exactly what, and had never been asked), didn't fancy it. 

“Mate, look, I've had a long day and I can smell the Constantine on you.” 

He stilled and it didn't look like a studied thing. Then, suddenly, that smile was back, only slightly more rictus than before, and in a fucking awful Scouse Flower impression, he said: “You can call me Johnny if you really want to.”

“Johnny Con-Job?” 

“Good one. Nah, I'm a magician now.” 

Magicians, in Crowley's experience, didn't smell like Silk Cuts and desperation. (They smelled like Pall Malls and smugness. Sometimes a bit like rabbits and a bit like doves.) But the newest one in a line of plenty was fumbling at his sleeves in a way Crowley had seen men in the city do before, when they needed – something. 

“What're you looking for, Johnny?” 

“A bloke can't approach a demon in the middle of a bar looking for some company?” 

“Not if that bloke's the latest in an unfortunately long line of pains in my arse, no.” 

“How about you get to be a pain in my arse instead?” 

It was the worse sense of self-preservation Crowley had seen since another Constantine had suggested, some time after the first James and before the last William, that buggery sounded like a right laugh. Maybe it ran in families: stubbornness, going to Hell, and an appreciation for getting sodomised by London's least committed demon. (At least Johnny Con-Job seemed like he'd had enough of being committed. He had that going for him.) 

“How about you listen to Maggie and stop offering up your skinny arse to strangers in hotel bars?” 

“I'm a Constantine,” said the Constantine, opening his hand with a lit cigarette, “you think I'm going to die of ignorance? I should be so bloody lucky.” 

It wouldn't be comfortable, but it would be lucky. Constantines were easy in more ways than one. Let him think he could buy himself a little more time with a bad blowjob and some worse flirting. It wouldn't hurt anyone. 

Crowley knew what a pain it was to file for a new body and Constantine probably had his own reasons for not wanting to get stabbed, so they entered the cubicle one at a time. The place was done out in dark tiles and strip neon lighting. (Hard to shoot up; easy to snort.) 

Constantine's kisses were smoke-sour and Crowley was stuck in another place, another time, until he broke away, winding fingers down Crowley's suit. 

“Anything you want.” 

“Oh, for the love of... Don't say that to a demon. They won't all be as nice as me.” 

_Nice_ was pressing Constantine down, him and his awful trench-coat which had probably seen much worse than a loo floor, to fuck his mouth, holding a tight handful of his grubby blond hair and pressing a cock into his throat until his choked and gagged. The cubicle had seen much worse sins than this one. 

If the latest dynasty representative of Team Hellbound wanted to take Crowley's mind off London's angelic infestation and zip the whole world down into a hot wet mouth and some poor self-esteem, Crowley could work with it. 

It took a few seconds for Johnny to get on board. When he did, it was with all the enthusiasm of a man who knew how to avoid drowning. He bobbed his head backwards and forwards, sucking loudly, stopping every now and then to shake when Crowley's cock hit the back of his throat. 

“M'gonna,” Crowley grunted, tapping Constantine to warn him like the true gentleman he wasn't. 

He came, a sharp burst of pain exploding across his groin at the same time he shot down the magician's throat. For a while he stood there panting with two elbows resting up against the wall. When the fireworks faded he opened his eyes, expecting a sticky mess and a faint sense of shame. 

He wasn't expecting a knife. 

“Did you stab me in the dick?” he asked blearily. 

“Not in the dick,” Constantine replied confidently, as if that had been Crowley's biggest concern. “Just dick-adjacent.” 

“Generally considered bad manners to stab a man anywhere in the general underwear area,” Crowley said, feeling his pitch rising the closer he got to ending the sentence. 

“Don't be a pansy. I was just trying to take some pubes, and you moved.” 

“You couldn't have just asked?” 

“How do you think that would've gone down? Hi, I'm a Constantine, you're a demon, let me steal some pubes for a magic spell, I promise I'll give them back.” 

“Point,” Crowley muttered. “Alright, well. You have fun with those.” 

“I will,” Constantine replied, and clambered awkwardly up from the floor. “See you in a few decades.” 

“I'll keep an eye out next time I'm downstairs,” Crowley replied. He tucked himself away. “And just so you know, if I see you down there because you fucked something up, I'm going to be pissed.” 

Constantine lit another cigarette and exhaled, filling the cubical with smoke. He was going to fit in just fine.


End file.
